


Keep it Alight.

by LadyVader



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-22
Updated: 2012-03-22
Packaged: 2017-11-09 12:18:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/455373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyVader/pseuds/LadyVader
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“John Watson measured his life by events and numbers in the time that followed <i>after</i>.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Keep it Alight.

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from 'No Sound But The Wind', the song that forced this bunny on me. Thankyou so much to [](http://takola.livejournal.com/profile)[**takola**](http://takola.livejournal.com/) for not only the cheerleading but for the awesome flash-beta when she caught me wrecking stuff ;D any leftover mistakes are most DEFINITELY still all mine. Set post S2 finale ‘The Reichenbach Fall’ so its SPOILERY.

  
Keep it Alight:

John Watson measured his life by events and numbers in the time that followed _after_. He had only been able to stand being in the place he had come to know as home just _twice_ since... Since _._

Five months passed. Actually, five months, three days, countless hours, minutes, _seconds..._ all tumbling through his fingers to pool, heavy, like the sands of an hourglass at his feet. Five months spent in a series of small rooms. His office, across from Sarah’s. It was nice of her to take him back on, he thought, but he couldn’t bring himself to return her careful smiles. In interrogation rooms, being questioned as every case Lestrade had ever sought consultation on, was literally torn apart and then finally in his flat.

Mycroft had offered to continue to pay half the rent on _their_ flat. He had continued to pay it in full, it seemed, as the place remained a monument to those last few seconds before they were both arrested. However, John had found that not only was he unable to bear the weight of such ‘generosity’ considering Mycroft’s betrayal, but just the _sight_ of the place was enough to have his leg buckling beneath him, breath rattling in his chest as his fingers flexed, aching and empty, reaching out for a hand no longer there for him and he fought the renewed urge for flight.

He’d tried staying with Harry, was proud of her in fact, for the effort she’d put into trying to shelve her own issues in order to address his. Unfortunately John had no intention of being forced into addressing said issues, particularly when the loss hadn’t lessened any of the influence and John found himself deducing just how long it’d be 'til she cracked and broke out her emergency stash, just by the way she shifted in her seat when on the phone to Clara, and so, amicably (thank god), they’d parted ways.

John had amassed some funds during the course of his time with... _him_ , and so his new (awful) studio flat wasn’t a financial burden. It was just bloody horrible - beige and blank and _lifeless_.

He’d gone home ( _after_ ) and, shaking, washed away the blood and tears and everything, 'til finally, John had found himself indiscriminately clothed and breathless as he collapsed into his chair, overwhelmed by the awful absence of _him_.

It had been all too easy to move out after that.

He stayed off his blog (they knew what he thought, it would never need an update) and avoided the yard, switching phones until the bloody papers got the sodding message and then, slowly but surely, his life dulled to the point where there was nothing left to push through, nothing left to feel.

Just _emptiness_ and a slew of seconds measuring nothing – a countdown _to_ nothing _from_ nothing.

It was hollow - his life and the automatic, polite smile he wore like body armour – pointless and agonisingly innocuous, so much so that for a brief, shining moment he’d felt bullet-proof, returning _home_ with the air of a man who could no longer be touched by mortal pain.

He couldn’t really remember much of that day anymore – he’d staggered free of the clutch of his grief sometime late into the evening, pushing away Mrs Hudson’s well meaning clucks about his nearly swollen shut eyes, lacking the voice to tell her it was fine, it was all fine or that it _would be_... someday.

Having done his best to block it from his mind, he’d made a point of never mentioning it to anyone, which was precisely why John was so staggered to find himself staring, dumbfounded at a photograph of him on _that day -_ an unconscious ball of exhausted grief, curled atop his lost friends barely used bed - a post-it affixed neatly to its flip-side, and a flash drive tumbling out of the jiffy bag that he’d warily signed for, bare seconds before.

He blinked at both, somewhat thrown before sitting heavily at his desk, reading and re-reading the cramped but curvaceous script until his eyes crossed with strain.

_‘Far be it for me to ruin anyone’s fake afterlife but it seems to me our boy’s in Hell - thought you might want to do something about that. I’d memorise the address were I you.’  
_  
John swallowed, throat dry from deliberately steady breaths, before reaching, with admirably steady fingers, to plug the flash drive into his laptop.

**“Watch closely John** ”, the program advised, in large bold letters atop a video that launched near instantly. The words melted away as he watched himself during what appeared to be the final moments of his crying jag, John shaking atop the bed, the sudden shock of his own grief upon entering that space clearly taking its toll as he bunched his ( _Sherlock’s)_ dressing gown between his fists and literally cried himself to sleep. ****

**“Keep Watching _”,_** the screen advised him in a well timed manner. John’s hand had unconsciously lifted to slap the laptop shut as he recoiled from _himself_ and the sharp pang of loss that accompanied the unleashed moment, when the timer built into the video seemingly skipped forward a good hour or so. ****

****He swallowed again, inwardly cursing the unknown messenger for ripping wide his poorly healed wounds, when suddenly a figure filled the doorway on the screen, abruptly freezing in place. John’s past self just lay there, all but unconscious and crippled with misery, and the figure just _stood there_. John's breath guttered in his chest, his eyes wide as he watched a long fingered hand slowly lifting as though to bridge the gap, shaking in mid air as it stretched out for John and _stopped_.

_Sherlock_. __

__Sherlock stood there, his mouth moving silently, near wordlessly, his palm open and turned beseechingly to where John lay on the bed. He was held in place then, by equally slim hands suddenly tight on his upper arms, Mycroft only barely visibly around the slump of Sherlock’s frame in the doorway as he spoke, swift and stern, before pulling Sherlock away.

It looked easy, as though he hadn’t resisted at all and John would have been hurt, struck bare by his own abandonment, had the camera not caught Sherlock’s face as he was firmly tugged out of frame, actual distress warping his usually schooled features and his mouth forming the same word again and again.

John. John. _John_.

The picture faded as the words formed once again but it took John aching, breathless moments to finish processing what he’d seen, only just in time to read the message.

  
**Big Brother has been watching you John, but then, luckily, so have I – just because a Girl dies, it doesn’t mean she’s disinterested. Sorry about your computer, but I think you of all people, will understand the concept of necessary sacrifice. Go now, before Mycroft knows you’re coming.**   


  
****  


The words disappeared, an address centre-screen and burning itself into John’s brain even as he leapt to his feet, flicking the laptop shut as it sparked, hissed and went blank, already out the door before his brain could catch up to where his body was taking him.

He hesitated by the cash machine before deciding against a cab – not only would the bloody ATM likely refuse him in Mycroft’s clipped tone, but the cabbie was bound to be in his employ, delivering John to whichever warehouse seemed best to scold and _lie to him_ in.

His fists clenched, John darted a look towards the nearest CCTV camera and took off toward the tube station as though that bloody faked Hound of Sherlock’s was on his heels.

_Sherlock_. __

__Barely twenty minutes later ( _please, oh please don’t let that be too long_ ) John ground to a halt, panting, limping and sweating, before a somewhat decrepit townhouse.

He shook off the tremor that raced through him, the feeling of blood free-falling within him once again and squared his jaw, all but marching directly to the door.

It opened before he got there.

“Now _really_ John,” Mycroft admonished, impeccably attired as always and somehow quite filling the door despite his lean frame, “Isn’t all this _Commando_ business just a little, shall we say, unnecessary?”

“You are going to let me in, Mycroft, so _help me_... because if you don’t...”

He trailed off, glaring and Mycroft cocked his head to one side, calmly assessing the unspoken words seemingly caught in the air between them.

_If you don’t – I don’t know what I’ll do, I’ll make you, I’ll beg you..._

__He took a deep, quaking breath through his nose and croaked almost unwittingly, “ _Please_?”

Mycroft held for a moment, unblinking, seemingly un-breathing, before slowly standing aside.

John stepped across the threshold, fast, his limbs jerking and stiff with the terror of Mycroft changing his mind before he had any answers of any kind, jaw dropping as he noted the screens – a veritable wall of them – seemingly tuned in across various parts of London. Some unfamiliar, some public and then some tuned in to highly familiar faces; Mrs Hudson, Greg, and his own hideous little rooms, where his poor ex-laptop still sat atop the desk, slowly melting, it appeared.

“This will needlessly place you in further danger, you realise,” Mycroft sniffed, turning to walk away through a darkened door. “Make the most of this time John. This house will stand empty before nightfall.”

John watched him literally disappear into the shadows, some tiny still ‘John-like’ part of himself finding time to think him a melodramatic twat before he turned to face the central staircase, pausing momentarily before racing up them at the sound of faint footfalls somewhere above.

He reached the landing, breathless as he took in the shut door at the end of a narrow, poorly lit corridor, walking swiftly to throw said door wide before his body could still with the fear that abruptly clutched at his heart.

The room was dark, a desk lamp doing its best to stave off the shadows created by the heavily drawn curtains, creating a sickly yellow halo around the figure hunched over the over-filled workspace.

“You know how I hate to repeat myself Mycroft; if you won’t allow me access to your toys then we’ve nothing further to discuss... by which I mean _Piss Off_ as it seems you’re incapable of taking the hint-”

He turned, backlit and scowling, and _froze_ , a claw-like white hand clenching on the back of his chair and John staggered under the weight of his relief.

Sherlock.

Sherlock Holmes was _alive_.

A helpless, short noise escaped him as Sherlock rose slowly, if not quite steadily to his feet.

He was even thinner than he had been when John first met him, angular having shifted into gaunt now, his hair overlong where it fell, curls almost lank, to brush the collar of his crumpled shirt, five nicotine patches visible against the slim stretch of his inner arm.

“ _She-Sherlock_...?” John almost achieved something close to audible, breath rattling in his throat as Sherlock slowly smiled, cat-like and oddly tremulous.

“John.” He said in turn and the deep, desperately longed for resonance of his voice in John’s ears triggered something deep in him, something that he’d been trying to squash, to _crush down_ into his gut and then he was _launching_ himself toward his suddenly resurrected friend.

“You _BASTARD_ ,” he roared as his knuckles met the sharp edge of Sherlock’s cheekbone, “You utter _bloody_ BASTARD!”

Sherlock staggered, genuinely surprised by the assault and John took his chance to tackle him, knocking him backwards with a shoulder to Sherlock’s sternum, the momentum knocking the air free of his lungs and leaving him momentarily stunned against the desk edge, palms lifting as he made no effort to defend himself.

“How could you? _HOW COULD YOU?_ ”

Sherlock – who had once fended off a hired mob with only his wits and a large ladies handbag – said and did _nothing_ as John wrenched him from his slump against the wooden surface to all but _hurl_ him at the wall, following with his fists as he struck him in the solar plexus and then again in the face.

“I WATCHED YOU _DIE_!” He bellowed and drew back. A whisper of memory told him that _this time_ he should go for the nose or teeth but then there were strong hands closing about his wrists, locked arms preventing him pushing forward as Sherlock’s pale if blood-shot eyes met his.

“I had to.” Sherlock rasped past a split and bleeding lip and John _howled_ with fury, thrashing back and forth in his grip to free his hands so that he could _shake the bloody bastard_ _'til he broke_ , hissing as Sherlock abruptly spun them, turning to brace John against the desk as he attempted to move free of the wall, still working to match their gazes. “It was you or me and I could only fake my _own death_ John – I _had_ to do it. It had to be _believed_ -”

John couldn’t _bear_ to hear more.

He wanted to _hurt him_ , he wanted to _weep_ , to slump against the wall and _rage_ until his heart settled in his chest, he wanted to laugh with his friend _, he wanted to beat the SHIT out of him_...

John kissed him.

_Hard_. __

__He could taste the blood he’d spilled only moments before, felt the quick huff of surprised breath against his lips and then there was warmth and pressure and... _soft_ , surprising softness and -

John heaved himself backward, panting and _stunned_ by his own actions, nearly toppling as he failed to achieve any real distance with Sherlock’s hands as manacles, unforgiving at his wrists.

There was no sound but their own mingled gasps, John’s eyes wide as Sherlock’s narrowed slightly; cataloguing details John wasn’t sure he wanted to think about right then.

He swallowed and wet his lips, startling slightly at the leftover taste of Sherlock’s blood upon them, swaying as Sherlock seemed to dip, his eyes almost hazy on John’s face as he dipped forward to gently – oh _so_ gently – brush his mouth against John’s.

A footfall sounded on the landing and John found himself released, retreating a step or so to stand almost at attention, seemingly on auto-pilot as Mycroft swept into the room.

“Your time is up John. It is regrettable but then so is the entirety of this charade. Follow me.”

Both John and Sherlock moved to follow, falling into step as easily as that first night together, only to halt upon the landing as Mycroft’s men moved to bar Sherlock’s way.

“You cannot be seen Sherlock and Dr Watson’s devoted follower is all but on our doorstep. Ready your things, you leave in less than 30 minutes.”

John frowned back at a visibly paling Sherlock, before finding himself swept down the staircase with a Bond wannabe both behind and before him.

“In just one moment John, you will exit this house, visibly angry that I have seen fit to monitor your actions for these past few months. When your would-be assassin later assesses the building he will find remnants that suggest a covert surveillance operation and _nothing more_.” He turned to face John, his expression stern and somehow apologetic. “There will be no returning to this place and you will not see him again until we have eradicated the threats to Mrs Hudson, Inspector Lestrade and yourself.”

John’s stomach turned leaden and he almost staggered beneath the weight of his disappointment, fury swiftly gaining a foothold past the swirling befuddlement that had stupidly led him down the stairs, a _way_ from Sherlock.

“What? I – _NO_ Mycroft, I’m not leaving now – not when I’ve only just... I, I _can’t_. I WON’T.”

His chest was heaving, the same buzzing in his ears and twitching in his fingertips as when he’d ( _they’d_ ) faced down an enemy and the stone-like facade that Mycroft was presenting was making the blood chill in his veins.

“I won’t – I _won’t go_ Mycroft!” He ground out and Mycroft’s eyes flickered toward the darkness behind John before narrowing.

He sighed, turning away towards yet another shadow drenched alcove. “Your refusal endangers all of you, my brother most of all.” He paused, his shoulders slumping in something like fatigue, had that not been far too human a concept for the eldest Holmes brother. “I will give you a moment to – _prepare yourself_.”

John opened his mouth – unready, unable to express anything but the utmost confusion and frustration with the situation in general, only to find himself jerked back into the shadows, a warm, lean body pressed against his side as a voice hissed in his ear.

“Make no mistake John Watson,” Sherlock’s lips were pressed so tight against John’s ear that he could almost feel the scrape of teeth against his skin, the heat of him surprising in the cool, close darkness, “ I amvery much alive and I am coming _back_ _for you_.”

John slumped, shaking, into the pressure of Sherlock at his side and closed his eyes, nodding as a cool hand squeezed his tightly before the surprisingly welcome weight of him slid away, leaving John bared and still reeling in the dim hallway.

“Are you ready, Dr Watson?”

John blinked at Mycroft for a beat before straightening, shoulders set as he snarled and all but marched from the house before him, raging loudly to the skies and _trembling_ as he allowed himself to be essentially manhandled into a waiting town car.

“This was for your own _good_ , Doctor – you cannot deny this is what he would have wanted.”

Mycroft’s tone was imperious but his eyes held something perilously close to regret as he towered over John, now peering out at him from within the confines of the car and John swallowed painfully as he recalled the steaming _hate_ he’d spat at Mycroft at every turn, nodding stonily as he knew befit his current role, turning away as the car door shut firmly behind him.

He spared a cursory glance toward Mycroft’s latest sleek brunette PA of choice before turning to gaze blankly at the house as they pulled away and left a considerable chunk of himself behind.

“I’ll need to collect my things.” He said gruffly, swallowing against the surge of confused longing that rose directly from his chest.

“Sir?” Not-Anthea responded, seemingly _deeply_ bored merely by John’s existence.

“My things. I’ll need them before you take me back to 221b.”

“Baker street, Sir?”

John closed his eyes, picturing the space as he’d left it, devoid of life and _waiting_ , empty of its crucial, _crazy_ heartbeat.

“Yes.” He said, quiet but firm, as he felt the sands rush backward from _since_ and starting pouring toward _'til_ and felt his hands stop their trembling atop his thighs.

“I’m going home.”

Fin.


End file.
